


Fawn & Jawwn

by LelianaVance (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Antlers, Big Brother Mycroft, Blogger - Freeform, Blow Job, Blowjobs, Come Swallowing, Cumshots, Dartmoor, Doggy Style, Emotional, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Explicit Sexual Content, Exploration, Facials, Fanastical!lock, Fantastical, Farewells, Fawn - Freeform, Fawn and Jawn, Fawnlock, Fawnlock's grove, Feels, Filth, Filthy, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Furry, Gay Sex, H.O.U.N.D, Hand Jobs, His Last Bow, Holmes Brothers, In The Woods, Jawn, Jawnn, John Watson - Freeform, John Watson Blogs, John's Jumpers, John's Reichenbach Feels, John's blog, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, London, Lubricant, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Man on Man, Masturbation, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft Runs the World, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft's Umbrella, Nicotine Patches, Nipple Play, Outdoor Sex, Pink!, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Hounds of Baskerville, Premature Ejaculation, Ramjohn, Reichenbach-Related, Reincarnation, Sherlock "Boring", Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Lives, Sherlock's Hair, Sherlock's Scarf - Freeform, Speedys sandwich bar, Spiritual, The Roof, Thighs, black lotus - Freeform, comeshots, grove, handjobs, lubrication, mary morstan - Freeform, pink suitcase, sex sex sex, sherlock and john - Freeform, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3532379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LelianaVance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fawnlock!</p><p>Sherlock died in the Reichenbach Fall but in what form did he return? John can only meet him once a year now and he is finding it harder and harder to contain himself. If you could only meet your lover once a year, could you hold it?</p><p>Now completed with Fawnlock’s origin and John and the new Sherlock’s first meeting!<br/>Explicit!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Third Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is going into the woods, searching for a lover.  
> The first snapshot into the weird and wonderful sexual life of Fawnlock and John.

The smell was how he had remembered it; the earthy freshness that so defined life away from the smoke, sounds and sensibilities of city life. Every step was like an incremental journey into the past, the fauna and flowers so strange and so alien. John took deep breaths of it, letting the thick air clog him up from the inside and cleanse the urban disease that so polluted him. His toes squelched beneath the cool wet mud as he travelled ever closer to that perpetually sunlit grove that was his destination. It was an emotional passing as much as a physical one, every footfall bringing back memories of the last expedition; a kiss here, a tail there, a silhouetted antler and those intoxicating sea-foam eyes. 

The change was upon him now; he could feel the alleviation of coiled secrets as they unfurled and laid bare beneath a summer sun. Gone were 221B and the too big room, the false wife and the upkeep of deceit regarding Sherlock’s fall. Here, there was blissful emptiness and the knowledge that what would fill him here would be the truest, sincerest of amour. He was close now, could see the crooked boughs of trees long since gnarled with age, the beginnings of the daisy-trail and the filmy ponds abuzz with life. Frog-like reptiles voiced his arrival like name-callers of old. 

His blue scarf, that totemic piece of apparel that hugged him during so many cases, hung across two curled branches creating an archway into his sunlit sanctum. John could smell him now; damp fur and roasted chestnuts. The intensity of daisies multiplied tenfold until they were a natural carpet on which he walked.

‘You’re late,’ Said a voice that started his heart aflutter. ‘The first morning of summer was yesterday.’

John cast his gaze about the place that frequented his dreams every night, the sounds and smells that filled his nostrils like ghost-scents all year round. The leaves were a green greener than green, the trees were wholesome, full and the branches hung low bearing fruit of all kinds. Sherlock, he noted, was absentmindedly nibbling on what appeared to be a purple apple-like fruit from one such tree. The sight of him still staggered John to his knees, it was like staring into the face of Nature itself, gazing into the soul of the forest, of the green that so breathes life into this planet of ours. 

‘You’re staring,’ Sherlock remarked with a dry smile. ‘I’ve missed it.’

“Sherlock.” John breathed, his hands grabbing at grass as if to steady himself. It was still a shock seeing him like this but John had always seen him as above and beyond everyone else and this, this, well this just seemed apt. The custodian of urban had now become the keeper of the forest. Sherlock stepped on over towards him, his gait smooth, fluid and not unlike a simple dance. Furred hands landed softly on his head, caressed hair that had been undisturbed for so long. 

“Oh get up John,” He said not unkindly, offering him a silky brown hand. John looked at him dumbfounded; it was like this every time, like learning he returned from the dead every year. John smiled through tears at Sherlock, knowing what would come next. 

“Is there something wrong?” Sherlock asked as he always did, playing his part.

“Yes,” John answered as ever, his eyes locking onto Sherlock’s as he finished. “I’m in love with you.” 

John always likened their lips pressing to one another like tasting the elixir of life, the fibres of being that saw the Earth spin, the waters rise and fall and the amoebas multiply. Kissing this new Sherlock was like discovering himself finally. His hands went up, not as far as his antlers, not yet, but to the collection of daisies that sprouted around his smooth fawn ears. They were in full-bloom and a pleasured sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips as John teased at the petals. 

Wrapped in each other on a mossy bed, Sherlock drew marks on John’s skin; green and brown markings that made him feel part of the forest, part of Sherlock. He was naked now but they hadn’t gone beyond kissing, this too was part of the routine. When he was done, Sherlock pushed John on his back, shook his great head in anticipation and began to tease John with dainty and furry fingers. He ran them down his front, gently circling around his nipples, brushing against inner thighs, passing over his half-erect prick. John was tense, overeager and grabbed at Sherlock’s body but he fought him off, smiling as he did. That smile could have thwarted any of his advances. Cool antlers scratched at his chest as Sherlock kissed around his member, licked at the tip. John was standing to attention now, hard as he had ever been. Mary struggled to get him excited, Sherlock could in a heartbeat. Sherlock took him then, soft moist lips enveloping him. He was slow, took the time to relish the act, licking all the way through it. John moaned aloud, his cries lost in a cacophony of tweets. Sherlock was moving quicker now, his hands planted either side of John’s thighs and his knees locked. John arched his head back, stiffened and grabbed at the grass about him. He tried to think of Moriarty or Moran but they couldn’t keep him in check, in the end, as was always the case, he thought of Mary and he lasted and lasted. Before long, John was flexing, skull-fucking this cold cruel man who was now more than anything ever. He reached down with his left arm grasping at that same wavy raven-black hair that had enamoured him so long ago, teasing at the tips of the antlers. Sherlock rippled at his touch, his movement quickening and his hands reaching for John’s erect nipples. Sherlock’s hair had always aroused him, the mere feeling of it running through his fingers was intoxicating and he had to let go before he exploded. He needed something else, not even Mary could stall the tide that was rushing over him now; his eyes fell upon the scarf. That navy scarf that had been through so much, wrapped Sherlock in its loving embrace throughout many a case also aroused him – there was nowhere for him to look- nothing could stem the wave slowly building from within. He wanted to pull him off, save the cum for far better a place, the place that he entered in every dream of every night, but he was gasping, gasping and it burst from him like a firework. John could feel the slight easing off of Sherlock’s sucking as the liquid hit him hard and he looked down, down his chest to that mat of hair and saw him. Stormy eyes full of love, lips wet with a little of them both. His hand on his own erect furry penis.

“Boring,” Sherlock stated with a glistening chin. “But I’ll wait. I’ll wait a millennia just to be with you.”


	2. The Eighth Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's John's eighth visit to Fawnlock's strange grove but something is different, Sherlock is acting strange and John really wants to get to the bottom of it. No matter how bad it is, they can get through it together, can't they?
> 
> This is more feels than filth but next chapter is filth, filth, filth!

Beneath a sky of stars, nestled in an unknown grove lit by preternatural means, John Watson was snoring, snoring so very loud that all manner of critters in a mile radius failed to reach their nightly slumber. Long, heavy and breathy, each exhale rippled along the coyote-brown arms that encased him. Entangled as they were, neither of them felt the cool breeze that rifled through both hair and fur alike.

Sherlock watched him sleep, as he always did, his analytical eyes scanning both horizon and friend; Shadowy boughs and dainty eyelids, rustling canopies and tussled grey-blond hair, homebound bats and squidgy ears. Deep down he knew that something had changed, some little nuance had made itself known, had multiplied and multiplied until it was as if he were drowning in the certainty of it. He needed to make these moments last, commit them to memory; he wouldn’t come back a third time. He kissed the top of his head, inhaling the John-smells that enraptured him so.

“Do you ever sleep?” John mutters, turning his head within inches of Sherlock’s. “Is that a new thing? No sleep?” 

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, one of those too-big to be genuine acts that brought a furrow to John’s brow. His antlers made bone-white afterimages in John’s sleepy eyes, disorientating yet magnificent. Would he ever be able not to surprise him? 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John felt that empty pain again, not the bottomless chasm that had consumed him after Moriarty and the Fall, but a frightening depression all the same. He tried finding answers in those indecipherable stormy eyes, found nothing but the surface warmth. The real hurt and secrets swarming behind, unknowable, un-shareable.

“I didn’t mean to wake you John,” Sherlock replied, his eyes searching downwards. “But now that you’re up?” 

John was not willing to be taken, not just yet, not with that large laugh playing around in his head. He knew something was wrong. If there was anything John Watson was greatly adept at, aside from medicine and soldiering, it was his surreal understanding of the enigma of Sherlock Holmes. He had the Sight when it came to this man; he alone had pierced through the bravado, the bigheadedness, the reclusiveness to catch glimpses of the man beneath the myth. John would share the load because that was what he did, what he would forever do; the good doctor would always be there for his favourite patient. 

“What’s wrong, really?” John asked. “What’s keeping you up?”

Sherlock did not answer, instead stood up to his long, chestnut coloured legs and looked away, into the dark depths of the forest. It pained him to spend any of these precious moments away from John but a coldness had fallen over him, a cruel certainty that this would be the last time and he couldn’t form the words. Did not want to acknowledge the truth behind them. He had started to feel an internal ringing that without being told he knew was heralding his final rest, a green boom from Mother Nature telling him his second time had come. 

“You will be okay John.” Sherlock stated, his back still turned. “You have Mary. Even Mycroft.”

John was up in a flash, the warm yellow glow playing across his taut and marked skin. He was scared, could feel that gash that had cut deep into him when Sherlock jumped from the roof, that depression he felt earlier deepening. John reached out to him, touching his velvety back. Sherlock didn’t turn around. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock.” He repeated and repeated but still he wouldn’t turn. “Sherlock…” His voice breaking, “Please…please tell me what’s wrong…please turn around.”

And when he did, his eyes were aflame, a green fire burning within them. His hair was standing on end, swaying ever so slightly as if he were in water, his fur was rippling from head to toe. The antlers John had spent many a year running purposeful hands along began to twinkle from the tips and gradually dwindle into the night. Light, bright then gone. John grabbed at him, the first of a thousand tears running down green-marked cheeks. 

“Sherlock what’s happening?” He held him tight, refused to ever let him go. Never again. He was so warm to the touch, molten even, but John fought against the heat and the arms that tried to push him away. 

“John,” That favourite of all voices, whispered to him amidst it all. “I have made a lot mistakes, too many that i dare to count, but you were the best of them. The great mistake. My Blogger.” He gently pushed him away to get a good look at his face, wiping away at the waterfalls falling from the doctor’s eyes. He smiled. They smiled. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. John was adrift, vulnerable, and Sherlock’s steadying hands upon his head had never felt more right; eyes that had studied corpses, liars, murderers and thieves locked onto his and Sherlock’s next words stayed with him until his own last breath: “I was never bored when I was with you.”

They kissed, John leading but Sherlock doing his part; lips and tongues sharing a final farewell. Forest fog whipped about them, the strange luminescence flickering off and on. Both his antlers had disappeared now. They didn’t break away from one another, not even when John’s hands didn’t feel fur anymore but skin, familiar skin of old, of the real man he fell in love with. Their lips tasted of salt. At length, at the very worst of times when John had never felt more as one, Sherlock was wrenched away from him in a gust of wind, his skin becoming translucent, his hair transparent. Sherlock was little more than a forest spirit now, his eyes back to that grey-blue, locked onto John’s. His mouth was gone now, but his eyes smiled instead. They seemed to twinkle just like they did when a body turned up and a case was thrown at his feet. John Watson was always his best case, his case above all others: the enigma of love. One by one, parts of him were taken by the wind and lifted skywards, lost to the atmosphere. His cheekbones remained the longest, angled see-through skin floating in nothingness before a breeze took them too and left nothing, nothing but the flickering light and the grove. And then that went too, stranding John in complete black. His sobs were loud, unfiltered and unheard.

It was morning before John dared to move, dared to consider all that passed the night before had all been real. Sherlock had left him. Again. 

Almost mechanically, John set about dressing himself; grabbing his woolly jumper, faded jeans, boxers, socks and shoes without thinking. On autopilot because he was scared to open himself up anymore, scared to let the feelings out, scared to be alone. The grove was a different place without Sherlock Holmes; gnarled and imposing, old and alien and encroaching, encroaching on John as if he were an outsider. And he was; both here and back in London. There were no daisies anymore; they too had gone with the wind during the night. 

He didn’t wash off the green-markings that Sherlock drew on him, this year they were special and he didn’t care who saw them. Mary would thin him mad, lost to some weird cult or some other nonsense but he didn’t care. On previous years he had dipped his hands into one of the many cool and mossy ponds that encircled the grove, today he just strode past them, unthinking. John Watson, Blogger, Doctor, Lover and Friend, did not make it far before the pain stabbed at him once more, stopping just beneath that beautiful natural archway that had led him here so many times. Sherlock’s scarf; still hanging across two branches, still welcoming. He stared for what felt like an hour, old images flashing across his mind; 221B, Pink Suitcase, Black Lotus, Dartmoor, nicotine patches, a violin and so much more it was excruciatingly disorientating. And although it hurt every time he looked at it, John Watson would not leave this place without it.

He walked and walked until grass became road, a familiar scented scarf wrapped against the non-existent chill, a final phantom embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. It hurts but be safe in the knowledge one more part of the story is to be told!
> 
> The First Year - When Jawwn Met Fawn  
> Expect drama, fun, filth :) But mostly, an ending that is a beginning!


	3. The First Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson learns that Sherlock may still be alive, journeys to a distant wood to see if it could possibly be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fawnlock origin story!  
> Want to know how Sherlock became Fawnlock and John reacted to this new version, then read on!

The clatter of cutlery, the grumbling early morning exchanges and the sweet aromas of morning tea assailed John as he stepped into Speedy’s Sandwich Bar & Café, his tired eyes seeking out the elephant in the room. He looked just as out of place as ever, a fat cat amongst toms. 

‘Ah John,’ Mycroft Holmes began with a wry smile. ‘Kept me waiting I see.’ His eyes searching, collating every fact about John’s day in an instant. ‘You’re looking better, less haggard; giving up the cigarettes four weeks back helped. New moisturiser as well I see.’

John, bemused as always, sighed. ‘How did you…’

‘And the moustache,’ He continued, playing with the handle of his umbrella, ‘didn’t suit you whatsoever.’

John looked left and right to see if anyone else had heard but nobody had, everyone lost in plates full of bacon and lettuce or chicken and sweetcorn. He hadn’t set foot in Speedy’s since the Roof and Moriarty, couldn’t stomach the thought of it and so to be now standing here with three-hours sleep before the older, slyer, Holmes, he felt like walking straight back out. Instead, he caught Mycroft’s eye and, defeated, simply asked: ‘Why am I here Mycroft?’

He smiled, something maniacal and foreboding on his face, and motioned to the seat before him. Sighing once more, John acceded and sat before him. His stomach betraying him with a groan. Mycroft looked questioningly at him but he shook his head, John couldn’t bear the thought of eating a greasy sandwich in front of him in that thousand pound suit.

‘Do you remember what you made me promise you John?’ He offered no reply and so Mycroft carried on, smiling. ‘You made me promise to tell you if anything at all came across my desk relating to Sherlock. I’m sure you said something about a gun and not caring about my…standing. I’m sure it’s nothing, little more than wide-eyed speculation, not worth the time and money of Her Majesty’s government but it’s here,’ He pushed a folder across the table. ‘Should you choose to rekindle your investigatory apprenticeship.’

John’s breath caught in him for just a second, he looked down at the folder his brow furrowing. Underneath the table he clenched his fists, fought the urge to bark back in reply, controlled himself. ‘It’s been…it’s been two years.’

If there was anyone else out here in this Sherlock-free world that could’ve shared his pain as much himself he would’ve thought it Mycroft Holmes but the manner in which he related this…speculation was straight, disinterested even. John wanted to reach across and grab at that crane-like neck and shake, shake, shake it to death. It was as if a door he had kept shut for so very long had been thrown open, all the emotional baggage cascading back onto recently cleaned floor.

Mycroft stood up. ‘It never gets better does it, frequenting establishments like this?’ Twirling his umbrella through the aisles, he stopped at the door, turned and smiled, not a predatory one but one that was genuine and amused. ‘Come now John, if there was ever anyone who could cheat death and escape from all responsibility, brother dearest would be at the top of such a list. Find him.’

*

Amidst the papers Mycroft had given to him were a number of satellite photos of a wooded area just outside of Greater London. After a brief GoogleMaps search, John was able to identify it as Selsdon Wood Natures Reserve. Three of the four photos showed, upon his first viewing, nothing more but a lot of wood and blurry wood at that but after a number of hours John spotted the black smudge in the upper-right corner. It could’ve been anything; a dog, a cat, a tent or even a bloody jumper. The fourth photo was an enlargement, blurrier still, but someone had traced a red-ring around a certain part of the blackness, a single line of blue. 

John’s heart caught in his mouth and he had to convince himself of all the possibilities other than it being Sherlock before he got ahead of himself. He hadn’t dragged himself out of hell just to trip up and fall right back down into it. Still, an inkling of hope clawed at him nonetheless.

He closed his laptop, not the new one he had been given for Christmas but the old one that had seen him write up all the cases on his blog, the one Sherlock would steal now and then to read his emails. The wallpaper had been changed, the bullet-holes long since filled in but he knew exactly where the yellow-face was and he went to it now, stared at it through the new dull, ordinary, beige paper. Placed a right palm against it.

His coat was on in a flash as the doorbell rang, the cab here within minutes. He descended the stairs two at a time and almost barged into someone opening the door in his haste. She looked at him perplexed. ‘John? Where are you going?’ This female asked. Mary. He hadn’t thought of her, truth was he rarely ever did. She was just a talking face, the very first to talk to him after Sherlock’s death, a life-ring that he had just unconsciously grabbed, held onto to see him above the salty waves.

And John Watson did something strange; he ran right past without offering the slightest of explanations, jumping straight in the cab and not looking back. Could be dangerous, he thought with a smile.

*

It was another world, one full of towering trees rather than imposing skyscrapers; fresh, aromatic air rather than the cloying, manufactured air of inner city London. The last place he would expect to find Sherlock Holmes. 

A distinct earthiness pervaded the air, caught in his nose as he ventured deeper and deeper into the unknown. He had been careless and ill-prepared. Rushing in without any real knowledge of the land. Something Sherlock would never have done, well, almost never. Still, John continued on, ducking beneath low-hanging branches and stepping over thick trip-worthy roots. It was like Dartmoor; rushing through the bush all alone trying to find Sherlock. The memory brought a smile to his lips despite the pain that trip had also inflected on their relationship. 

Step after step brought him farther and farther into the forest, the vegetation changing with every footfall; first oaks and daffodils and then things he couldn’t place - alien, tentacle-like things. There was something about this place that eased the tension within him, the aches and pains of two years of depression slowly evaporating and leaving him entirely. He ran now, faster and faster, the thought, now more than ever, that he would truly find him at the end of this path a certainty. 

John splashed through shin-deep marshes, his boots soaked and squelching with every little movement but he made it, his breathing heavy as he saw it. It was true then, Sherlock is alive. 

It was oddly dramatic as was often the case; that scarf he always wore and wrapped around him in such an elegant fashion, strewn about the canopy. No, not absent-mindedly strewn but placed. Hung from one tree to the other; an archway, a gate. John gaped at it for ten, maybe twenty minutes, his head half-turned and fighting back a wave of tears. He didn’t want to move for fear of breaking the hallucination. He had never realized how very Sherlock that scarf was until now. He stared and stared and would’ve stared some more if not for a chorus of odd croaks and ribbets. A trio of strange frogs hopping to his left, their fronts almost popping with the stored croaks that fell from them loud and long. Something shuffled. Something within. 

An uncertain laugh escaped John’s lips and he scratched at his head, deliberating for the first time today. Could this ever be real? Sherlock had fallen, he had seen the body. What could he ever hope to find in that grove?

‘John.’

The Doctor looked up and knew as soon as he did that it was all a dream. A new one, an odd one, one he would never thought he could think up but a dream nonetheless. There he stood. Sherlock. Sherlock as never before. 

‘Very strange isn’t it?’ The hybrid asked. It had Sherlock’s black curls, his stormy eyes, his cheekbones and long frame but was covered in chocolate-coloured fur and had great bone-white antlers. He grasped at a word at random; fawn-like. 

‘This is a dream.’ John stated. 

‘Not at all.’ Sherlock replied taking a long fluid-like step forward. ‘Your imagination is not colourful enough for such extremes.’

That was so Sherlock. The voice that had weaved through his dreams and nightmares ever since Moriarty and the Fall. John was shaking; his very existence shook by an internal earthquake, he wanted to cry, shout and scream but also jump, leap and laugh. He was going insane. It was only logical. He had been playing house for so long, hung up on a man who enjoyed the suffering of others, found pleasure in murder.

‘Stay with me John. For a mind like yours this is where it gets a little…confusing.’ Sherlock took another step forward, his new lithe frame at ease in such conditions. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, the silky fur that now encased him. John swallowed hard, gently rocking.

‘Wait. Wait.’ His ailing mind had grasped onto something, held on for dear life. ‘This is isn’t it?…is this another experiment? Mycroft! This is some strain of H.O.U.N.D or something isn’t it? Some trick. Mycroft! Get out here!’ The tears flowed then. The first for a full month. Fresh and hot.

‘John, John, what did I say about those emotions of yours?’ And this new Sherlock held him then, wrapped him all up in warm silky arms. Held him and held him. John’s eyes were wide and disbelieving despite his touch but it was what he said next that finally chiselled down his stony resolve.

‘Not bored anymore.’

‘Sher…Sherlock!’ John held him back. Awkward at first but inherently right. He expected Sherlock to scramble out of it, push him away but he didn’t. 

‘You’ve met someone.’ He said at length, his eyes distant as they parted. ‘Perfume. Paco Rabanne, I believe. Don’t know the specific name, been out of the loop for a bit.’ He added with a small smile when John looked at him perplexed. A surface smile hiding his true feelings on the matter.

‘Mary.’ John answered simply. The name enough. 

‘I’m glad.’ Sherlock replied, holding his eye now.

‘It’s not…I’m not happy.’ John acceded, his eyes falling to floor, embarrassed.

‘I know. That’s why I said I’m glad. From what I can gather from your appearance she isn’t right for you, harbouring many secrets; lovers? No. Debts? No. Weapons? Yes. Murderer? Probably. Not right at all. You mentioned Mycroft?’

John laughed then, not the fake ones that had been escaping his lips for two years now but the real, genuine article. He couldn’t care less about Mary, the diagnosis intoxicatingly brilliant. Perfect. She did always seem to go out late at nights, he thought. Sherlock laughed too, their roars filling the forest and sending a flock of purple-feather birds skywards.

‘He found you. Brought me a folder.’ 

‘Of course he did. Never can keep his prying to himself. I’m glad though John, it is good to see you. Did you bring my violin?’

Sherlock led him into the grove; some strange light illuminating it from no discernible source. It was full of strange trees full of fruit he had never seen before. It was like standing inside the heart of Nature, the very epicentre of green. John could feel the very ebb of life in the air, feel himself intoxicated by existence. Sherlock only smiled, sat down on an overturned log. Patted the place beside him.

‘How? How did you…How?’ John stammered, his words falling over each other as he sought out the conundrum that had been tearing at him since he first laid eyes upon him. His eyes were firmly on Sherlock’s antlers.

‘Moriarty was dead. I was dead.’ He began as he stared out into the depths of the forest. ‘Case after case to keep my boredom at bay, vice after vice, is that healthy John? For me, yes. But for anyone else no.’

‘It’s you.’

‘Pulse quickening at the thought of the unexplainable, the unquantifiable. I’m not a good man John, could never be. But I’ve been given this.’ He motioned to his new body. ‘Given a second go as they say. Who are they do you think? It’s not like before, never like before. One day.’

John waited for him to continue, when he didn’t he simply said: ‘One day what Sherlock?’

‘First day of summer. Every year. One day.’

John was still at a loss, his mind still failing to compute his existence let alone his new body and this one day blabber. He swallowed hard. Touched Sherlock’s arm, prodding as if the embrace they just shared was a mere figment. Warmth and fur. The smell of earth and chestnuts not gunpowder or blood. 

‘It’s really you.’ He managed after a minute of silence. 

‘God John, I thought we were past that.’ He got back up, held out a hand to John. ‘One day. One day of the year to see one friend. Could be…fun.’

Their hands now one, in this magical place with impossible circumstance, everything finally clicked; lingering, unacted upon glances finally connected, held. John got up and they were face to face, man to fawn. 

‘You know all those times when people thought…’

‘John, shut up.’ They kissed. Lips of soil tasting lips of tea. Neither of them closed their eyes, each one trying to gauge if it was wrong, right or a joke but the connection lengthened and lengthened until, scared that it would end, John closed his and placed a steadying hand around Sherlock. He stiffened at first, not used to that kind of contact but he relaxed, became, for the first time in his life, malleable to someone else. 

They parted to silence. Stunted and long. John couldn’t catch his eye, Sherlock merely staring into distance. John smiled eventually, was about to say something about Mrs Hudson but he couldn’t bring himself to fill that voiceless gap between them. The very grove seemed to wait in anticipation as well, all the bizarre critters, mammals and oddities silent as the grave. Only two mouths; breathing, breathing, breathing.

‘Better than the hat?’ Sherlock finally said, motioning to his new body. And they laughed, long and hearty. Both thankful for such a gentle alleviation of the tension.

‘Getting the hang of jokes then.’ John replied. And it was as if they were back in 221B and nothing had ever changed, they were the tenants of Mrs Hudson, the doctor and the detective, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. 

‘That was…’ John began, words simply escaping him.

‘Unexpected?’ Sherlock offered. ‘Wrong? Revolting? Perfect?’

‘Right.’ John answered simply. ‘Just…right.’

They were back together in a flash, hands grabbing at one another as if possessed. John hands grabbed handfuls of fur, his breathing racy and his mind fully open, as if a great lock that had been closing a part of himself for his whole life had finally been opened. Sherlock too, hand his hands ranging beneath John’s thick woollen jumper, searching, searching, and finding his nipples. Sherlock didn’t know what he was doing, he was just following instinct; he knew what this all was but he refused to merely copy what he had heard or seen, he just let what felt right happen. Sherlock Holmes had never felt such an urge, it was like ten serial killer cases and a kidnapping all in one. His mind was racing.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes kissed like they had been starved of air for their entire existences, each one refusing to break the link. They only stopped when Sherlock dared a hand towards John’s belt buckle and they looked at each other questioningly, nodded and then his clothes were gone in an instant; denim and wool littering the green. 

John was already hard, harder than he had ever been in his life, harder by far than in any of his relations with Mary. His prick was like a spear stabbing at Sherlock’s warm, furry leg. Sherlock looked down, his eyes falling upon it and he swallowed, swallowed hard. His antlers scraped at John’s chest as he moved slowly down towards it, the pain only heightening John’s experience. His first touch was a little like John’s first ever attempt at masturbation - wrapped in a sock, oddly warm and so very comforting. Long slender fingers grasped and he gasped out, relishing at his touch. Sherlock hadn’t even began to pull him yet, just merely touched at the base. He did now though, rhythmic and purposeful. Firm and fantastic. Each motion was like pumping up a tyre, the pressure within John increasing and increasing. And then he felt wet. Tongue. Sherlock had taken him, his lips moist around his cock, tongue teasing the tip. John arced his back, grabbed at Sherlock’s head and felt the daisies he hadn’t seen yet and sensed Sherlock’s deep gasp of pleasure around him, the breath whispering at his pubes. Above him, beyond the interlinking canopies, through a small gap he saw something glitter like a star.

He had his hands on the antlers now and he could feel Sherlock’s body ripple incessantly, rumbling like a turned engine, ready to accelerate. John was nearly there, his body tensed and ready to explode. Sherlock stopped, pulled away and upwards. Their eyes locked. Sherlock’s rolled down. John did as bidden, his turn. He wasn’t as well versed, was too quick and eager. His going was rough and he couldn’t hold off, his mouth around Sherlock’s furry penis in a heartbeat. It was odd, tasted of…life, of air and everything. It was suffocating. Sherlock’s was larger, a brown-pole that almost gagged him as he tried to take it all. And he did gag when two hands grabbed at the back of his skull and rammed it further and further downwards. Sherlock began to thrust, slowly at first but then quick, then impossibly fast. Then he stopped, and John pulled back gasping for air, his hands falling to the green grass carpet, his head hanging low. 

‘Sherlock…Sher…’ John tried to say but his mouth betrayed him, only long glistening drips fell from those lips. 

Chocolate spindly arms reached down, grabbed him. ‘Get up John.’ 

He stood up only for Sherlock to turn around, bend over before him. John swallowed hard, thought that this was all still a dream. This would be it. The rest they could explain away, forget entirely. But this. This would cement it all. Sherlock pushed his arse violently against him. It was like staring at a bristling hairy table, four long legs touching the green floor. One gaping hole. He was so so hard. He grasped at the hip with one hand, the other piloting his prick into Sherlock’s arse. It wouldn’t go in. The passage so tight. Sherlock pushed himself on him again but there was no room at the inn. John was eager now too, his eyes searching about him for something, anything to make this easier. 

His eyes fell upon the mossy ponds. 

He walked on over, Sherlock’s pouting face watching him go, still on all-fours. John was elbow deep in the green viscous water, with a handful of the slimy liquid in hand he poured it over his penis. Clumps of moss tangling in his pubes. Four handfuls over himself and another which he carried back over to Sherlock, trying his best not to spill a single drop. He half-poured and half-fingered the thick sticky water into Sherlock’s arse, him gasping as he did. Two fingers, up, down, in a circular motion. Three fingers. Four. It was wet, ready to for occupancy. 

He missed the first time, his slippy prick escaping his grip and slapping against Sherlock’s cheeks, the second time was rougher, more purposeful and caused Sherlock to cry aloud, all critters in a mile radius fleeing for their lives. Sherlock took hand after hand of grass as John fucked him, slow at first, then angled, then fast and hard. Hard and fast. John expected to burst before they had even started but he held, his mind an open book, his body a utensil for something higher, something spiritual.

‘Harder John. Harder!’ Sherlock commanded, his voice like that of the man in Baker Street, the neurotic sociopath. John acceded, his hips almost blurry in speed.

Ten minutes, fifteen, nearly twenty but Sherlock pulled himself away at nineteen, his body swivelling, his face alive in anticipation. He smiled, knowingly as white fireworks exploded across his moon face. The cum in his hair, dangling from his left antler, dripping off his nose and cheekbones, concentrated on his lips. He licked it all up, held John’s eyes as he swallowed. His own hand was on his penis, the motion hypnotic as he pulled himself harder than John thought possible; the speed entrancing. Their eyes never parted as the long line of cum shot up before them, reaching twenty feet in the air, falling with a satisfying thump. A sticky line of it caught in John’s sandy-grey hair. 

Sherlock pulled him down, both expired but not yet ready to stop. Intermingled, flesh in fur, they kissed and teased one another until the sun was high, the moon teetering on the edge of view. 

John fell asleep much later, his arms wrapped around Sherlock. Having enjoyed the act, Sherlock masturbated again in silence, his other hand teasing John’s rim. He didn’t wake up, didn’t see the second line of cum assail the midnight air. Sherlock was content. Not bored. Happy, even. 

It was silly - juvenile even – Sherlock thought as he watched John snore and snore, and something he would never admit to thinking but, in a certain light and from a certain angle, John had something of the animal about him too. It was implacable but Sherlock liked the idea of horns to mirror his antlers, stoutness to counterpoint his daintiness. It was silly. John wouldn’t come back, wouldn’t go through the same inexplicable metamorphosis as he did; John is a great mean, he has no reason to have a second go at it. Only the broken get a second try. 

After a time, Sherlock Holmes looked up at what John thought to be a bright star in the sky and held up a hand. 'Morning Brother.'

Sherlock Holmes smiled, heard the voice of the green whisper to him, tell him secrets and impossibilities, explain to him how this would all work, inform him how long he had…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it :) That is the first meeting, the first kiss and the first time!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did writing it.  
> It is great to end with a beginning! Feel free to go back and read it chronologically, if that is how you prefer, just to see how Sherlock softens over time.


End file.
